


Home (A Long Time Coming)

by deathwailart



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Angst, Bearded Women, Canonical Character Death, Dwarves, F/M, Family, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, I really need Gloin's wife to have a name, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gloin brings Gimli and his wife to Erebor.  He brings them home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home (A Long Time Coming)

Once rebuilding is underway, once the dead have been laid to rest, once they have bid farewell to their burglar their people arrive with baggage trains and carts, flocking back to their home, birds flying this way and that at all hours of the day. Glóin, son of Gróin, prepares to bring his wife and son to the mountain, to bring them home to join the rest of their people once their chambers are fit to be lived in, free of dragon stench. He tries not to think of the lady Dís who will not see her brother or her brave young sons again, Thorin, Fíli and Kíli entombed in the hallowed halls of Erebor. It is he and his brother who travel alone and for the most part in silence – none who remain begrudge them leaving the rebuilding efforts when they will be bringing family on the return journey. Indeed, the sight of wives and children (oh how Gimli protests that he is not a child even though he will forever remain a tiny shrieking bundle in Glóin's arms in his mind) bolster their spirits. Dáin claps him on the shoulder the morning he leaves telling him that Erebor will be even richer with Glóin's wife – she is a great dwarven beauty and talented smith besides – wishing them a safe journey there and an even safer journey home.  
  
It's been a long time since home has been possible.  
  
He and his brother make fair time even if they are quiet but for the nights when nightmares keep them awake, following them even in the light of the day. Not only of their journey (spiders, great and terrible with their webs, cold and hunger of elven dungeons, the stink of goblins, the smash of stone giants and the laughter of trolls, the shrieks of orc and warg) but all that they have seen. Smaug's scorching flames and foul stench that still clings to so much of Erebor. Azanulbizar where they lost a king and prince and so many kin yet gained Thorin Oakenshield. Dwarves are a stout folk and their maker made them so they might endure the great horrors of Morgoth but still it touches them for even the elven folk can be lost to grief and great horror or so he has heard.  
  
"Think on what we have gained," Óin instructs often, "think on your fair lass and wee laddie."  
  
"Not so wee these days, strong and proud."  
  
"And stubborn too."  
  
"Perhaps if you had not dropped him-"  
  
Óin removes his hearing trumpet but they both smile. Smiles come much easier now even if he still feels guilt that not all thirteen of them lived to see their people relieved and joyous once more.  
  
At long last they arrive in Ered Luin, much quieter than he has ever known it, most already departed but he had asked his wife to send their things ahead and wait for him so they might travel together. A great weight is lifted when he spots bushy red hair and by Mahal how is it possible his son's beard has grown so much in such a short space of time? There is no pretending to be a strong, brave warrior now, not as he did when he first heard word of the quest when he protested that he was damn well big enough to join them. Gimli lets out a loud and excited whoop, running as fast as his short legs allow to throw himself at Glóin who feels a sharp ache in his chest as he holds his son tight enough that it must not hurt. It is for him that he went as much as it was for Thorin. He wanted his son to know the same halls he and Óin did, the halls they played in with their cousins Balin and Dwalin and now he will have that.  
  
"We heard word that the dragon was killed!" Gimli says in a rush even as he barges into his uncle, the one who helped to bring him into the world, grinning brightly. _So young_ , Glóin thinks and he thinks of Fíli and Kíli and has to look away, has to push the grief down for their dead have been laid to rest and there is much to look forward to. They have known too much pain and loss and now it is at an end, they have their home once more and they have a king and soon so much will spill out into the world from Erebor, gold and silver, such jewels that so many have forgotten. Only it is not the king they all followed and who carved out a new life, who did so much right by them. And there is one jewel none will see again for it lies with a king who is no more. The king that should have followed lies with him and his brother too.  
  
Then he hears nothing for his wife is there and she is radiant with her fine beard and braided sideburns, her long hair studded with silver beads she made herself, beads that match his own and he runs to her, forgetting he is a respectable dwarf, swings her around in his arms as she laughs and scolds him. When he sets her down and feels her hands settle on his shoulders to draw their heads together he thinks that at last he will heal.  
  
"I have missed you," she tells him fiercely with tears in her eyes.  
  
"And I you my love," he replies in a voice that is hoarse for his throat is too tight to allow him to speak. They ignore the protests of their son when they kiss for far longer than is decent in public and he thinks that never will he be parted from her again until it is time for him to go to Mahal's side.  
  
It takes many months to get back to Erebor for though both wife and son are capable he would not wish upon them what he has witnessed as he leads the way through the wilds, sharing stories of their journey – the silly stories Ori won't tell in his recollection of their travels – as he catches up on all he missed when he was gone. Their pace is slower than Thorin's marches but they make good time and each morning he and his wife take turns braiding their beards, letting Gimli pester his uncle when they need moments alone although there is an agreement from the last time they shared a bed.  
  
"In Erebor or what lies beyond," she had said with her strong hands twined through his beard, free of braids or beads.  
  
"Aye," he'd agreed readily with his forehead resting against hers, "in the bed we once knew with thick walls of stone that might keep all sounds only to us."  
  
"No one else is allowed to hear you as I do," and they should have been sleeping for he had an early start but had ever there been a beauty such as her? "Or see you for you are mine as I am yours."  
  
"You stole my heart when first our eyes met; you have given me more than I ever could have dreamed of."  
  
Still, it is hard to remember their vows when he watches her sleep or when the light of her fire seems to make her hair glow. Worst of all is when they bathe, him unable to take his eyes off her strong muscles and glorious curves until she splashes him with freezing water to bring him back to the world of the living.  
  
At last they make it and Balin and Dwalin are there, Gimli begging for stories of how many orcs and goblins they killed – too young to notice the wince, the way his kinsmen shoulder their loss again – and their little band make their way to the great gates. It takes a moment for Glóin to notice that his son has stopped for he feels he is in a dream in this moment, his wife and son (and he is blessed, rich indeed to have them and has always felt such a way even in exile), his brother and cousins, all about to enter their home to begin a new chapter of their lives. He stops and his wife stop, waving the rest on ahead, each with a hand upon Gimli's shoulders. He feels the strength there and it will not be so very many years before he hands down the weapons his own father gave to him – Gimli will be trained along with Erebor's finest, a mighty warrior this boy of his will be. They give their son time to look upon this place he will call home now, allow him to find his voice and when he speaks he sounds young, far younger than he is.  
  
"This is Erebor," he states quietly and Glóin nods, watching his wife tuck one of Gimli's braids behind his ear. "This is what they," he swallows, hands clenching into fists, "they died for?"  
  
"Aye my laddie," for Gimli is no longer a wee badger and they are always honest amongst themselves about what they have lost so they do not forget, "that they did in a great battle, defending their king, reclaiming a home for all of us."  
  
"They will ever be remembered," his wife continues, "and though now they are at Mahal's side they will be with all the others lost to us in the days before your birth and they will know you have a home now."  
  
"They said they'd teach me to fight here."  
  
He is just a boy. He is Glóin's boy and he has lost kin and good friends for though Ori is closer in age Gimli liked to race around after Thorin's heirs, playing at mock battles with practice weapons. He wishes he could spare his son this pain but he knows it will make him strong. There is nothing he can say that will ease his son's grief over friends lost so he gives him time to gather himself and when Gimli is seemingly ready to move on they start to walk again.  
  
"I will never forget them," Gimli whispers, "thank you Fíli and Kíli and Thorin Oakenshield for getting me here."  
  
They step through the gates of Erebor together, each still with a hand on their son's shoulders throughout greetings and tours of all the places Gimli has never seen before – he watches with delight as his wife strides through the forges she once knew and they have to drag Gimli out of the armoury. There is a feast that night. All the members of the company that remain and so many more, singing and laughing and Gimli almost falls asleep in his pudding allowing Glóin a chance to excuse his family for it has been a long road for them. They put Gimli to bed – how young he looks and they share a laugh over how it was always one more story, one more tale of glory and valour – and retire to their own rooms that have been rebuilt. He remembers their vow before he left, all those long looks on the road but once he is in bed a low moan of pain escapes him and the tears he has held in check come swiftly after. She holds him close with his head on her shoulder, strokes his back and rocks him as one might a dwarfling as he at last talks of it all, the things that never made it into the letters sent from Erebor to their people, the stories Ori will not tell. He speaks words none of them will talk of easily and after this night he will speak no more of them until Gimli is of age, Glóin's axes once belonging to Gróin in his hands. They lie together in the strictest meaning of the word, him in her arms until his tears have ended, at last able to breathe easily for the first time in many months.  
  
"I love you," he tells her, kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips, unbraids her hair and beard.  
  
"I love you too," she replies softly, "rest in my arms and know that the worst is truly behind us."  
  
They sleep late and rise later still as he worships her amidst their bed of furs and silks, their voices echoing off stone walls. She returns to the forge, he continues to show Gimli around and introduces him to other young dwarves, few though they may be. Within a week she has forged a helm for their son and a new hearing trumpet for his brother.  
  
Glóin is home with his wife and son, his brother, his cousin and friends. There is a king beneath the mountain once more. Aye, Mahal has blessed him indeed. He goes down to the tombs of the royalty and thanks Thorin, thanks Fíli and Kíli for their sacrifice. One day he will thank them again in person and they will laugh and smile together as they did on their long journey. He returns to his family with lighter steps and the next morning he kisses his wife farewell on her way to the forge and begins to train their son to be a mighty warrior who will bring renown to their people.

**Author's Note:**

> This might not (probably doesn't) follow canon regarding how people came to Erebor or where people were but I was rewatching Fellowship and really wanted to write about Gimli and Gloin's wife and a family that aren't the Durins.


End file.
